Autograph

The delivery guy is shifting his weight,

banging his boot against the doorframe.

I take the plastic pen and my hand goes stiff.

I used to practice this in notebooks,

loops and slants that looked like a real person.

Now it’s just a jagged heart monitor line.

The blue light on his pad blinks 'Invalid.'

He sighs, a heavy, wet sound,

and I scribble again, faster this time,

just a series of teeth that don't mean anything.